


Mint and Memories

by Syndal



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:46:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syndal/pseuds/Syndal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment of bonding and understanding between friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mint and Memories

She brings the leaves to her nose, eyes shut tight, breathing deeply of the fresh scent of mint.

“I don't suppose you have anything more... earthy?”

The old man grunts, “The only thing I've got more earthy than them leaves, girl, is dirt.”

The elf frowns and pulls a purse fat with coins from her belt. “Here, twenty silver for the the box.”

That familiar look of suspicion creeps across the shopkeeper's weathered face, betraying the unvoiced question of 'and where does an elf get coin like that to spend on tea leaves?' But this elf is armored in plates of steel and armed to the teeth, so he simply nods and says: “Aye, that'll do.”

Venna Tabris swallows back the thick lump of contempt nestled in her throat as her fingers curl around the small black box of tea leaves, tracing along the painted vines and crimson petals if only to keep them from balling into a white-knuckled fist. The road had treated her well, sleeping under the stars, drinking water that was clean and crisp; it had taught her that not all shemlen were so terrible. Alistair was charming and mostly harmless. Leliana was a wonder of intrigue and pretty songs. Wynne was kind and smelled of herbs and wisdom. Only the shemlen of Denerim, it seemed, were full of piss and bile.

Venna had almost forgotten what it was liked to be trapped within walls of stone and rotten wood. But she remembers now, remembers what it's like to be an elf living amongst humans, living in an alienage, living as _less than._

The too-raw edges of her pride still sting, and she sees the look on Shianni's face, bloodstains on the carpet in Bann Vaughan's quarters, she remembers that look of utter helplessness. It was too soon, too soon to come back here. A small voice whispers in her ear, telling her to leave, before anger overwhelms, and she says something -- does something, that she cannot take back. The old man stands there, callused hands gripping the edge of the counter, looking at her as though she's nothing but a common thief dressed up like a knight.

Silence stretches on between them, the old man and the elf, and the telltale glint of fear is there, lurking behind both of their eyes. He wonders if he should call for the guard. She wonders if she might do something incredibly foolish, like leap over the counter and cut his throat.

"And that would earn you nothing but a noose," her Mother's voice says from somewhere deep in the back of Venna's mind, where it has been kept locked away for twelve long years.

The soft ringing of a string of bells hung from a rusted nail on the shop door snatches her back from the grips of things best left forgotten, and Leliana, framed by sunlight and as graceful as ever, greets the elf with a smile that hounds the shadows of her darkening thoughts.

“Come, Warden,” Leliana chuckles, “Alistair has found the fine cheeses of Orlais in the market and I fear I shall never be able to pry him away.”

Venna nearly smirks at that, the image of Alistair weighing and appraising each slice of brie and picodon as though they were made of the finest gold, and the anger slips away, simmering down to that empty blackness, the one that had always lingered, the one that always would. Giving the shopkeeper a last pointed look, she follows the bard out onto the streets of Denerim, taking care to close the door behind her with only slightly more force than is necessary, and the rattling of silver bells is her reward.

 

~~~~

The fire crackles and dances, licking at the worn kettle above. It was not her watch. Venna should have been fast asleep, letting the fitful dreams of darkspawn rake through her mind. Instead, the elf sits near the campfire, legs stretched out as far as they can go, listening to the faint scrape of a whetstone gliding against Asala.

A bolt of doubt shoots through to Venna's core, filling her with an unwelcome warmth that blooms red on her cheeks and the tips of her pointed ears. It was painfully like her to take something someone had said in passing and hold on to it, to store it away for later use or safe keeping. The Maker only knew when she might need such things again. This particular thing, however, was miniscule and hardly worth what very likely could have come to pass in the shop earlier that day. But Venna remembers, whether she wants to or not, and her free hand finds its way to the tea box by her side.

The whistle of the kettle sends her jumping out of her skin. The tensed muscles ease and she almost laughs at herself. Shale certainly laughs: a deep rumble of grinding stone. With great care, the elf pulls the kettle from the fire, setting it on a flat stone where await two wooden cups. One is cracked at the lip, threatening to split at any moment. The other is so old that the small carvings of bears and wolves and halla are beginning to fade into shapeless forms. Relics of home.

Venna moves to the edge of the camp, both cups in hand, wishing all the while that she had let the water cool a little more. She approaches the bronze giant, who sits upon a moss covered stone, cleaning a sword that is as tall as she -- a sword that is both blade and soul. For a moment, Venna wonders if she is stumbling onto something that she was not meant to be part of, a manner of ritual for weapon and wielder alone.

That thought, however, vanishes as dark eyes raise to meet her own and there is no agitation there, only expectation. Sten takes the cup that she offers without question, for she is his kadan, trusted like no other in these forsaken lands. Darkened leaves, the aroma of mint and other herbs, steam rising in a lazy curl. In his mind's eye he can see the shores of Seheron, orange with the glow of the setting sun.

The elf allows what she hopes is a small, private smile, decidedly pleased with herself.

“You... you did not have to do this, kadan,” Sten says, setting the cup down to place Asala in its sheath; a marvel of blue steel glimmering in the moonlight.

“Think nothing of it,” the elf says with a dismissive wave, taking a sip from her own teacup. “We passed by a tea shop in Denerim. Leliana kept Alistair entertained and I slipped away for but a moment. I regret that I was unable to find any incense, though. A pity. I would have liked to have burned a few in Oghren's tent.”

“Still, I thank you,” he says, and she realizes that he means it, truly. 'Thank you' was a phrase that she had heard countless times over the course of their journey, but never had it resonated so.

A quiet flutters between them and their eyes meet, her face shadowed by the light of the campfire, his illuminated by it. “You are most welcome,” she says softly.

~~~~

“Do you miss it, Sten? Your homeland, I mean. I know I don't miss the alienage.”

“I miss the smells of Seheron. Tea and incense and the sea.”


End file.
